Cat Hair, Reunions, Facebook, and the Meaning of Life

Tonight after work is the inaugural spring BBQ at the BFF’s- it’s a haircutting and mojito party, with our hair guru Dax and her scissors. So you can all expect me to be a bit prettier tomorrow, and I know I won’t disappoint you!

It will be a much-needed few hours of relaxation after a busy day and busier week.

Remember the scene in the book Misery where Stephen King’s writer character is churning out a novel to keep his psycho captor happy? And his typewriter has no ‘n’ key? Well, this morning a rather important bit on my keyboard ceased to perform for me- the SPACE BAR.

I had a 10am deadline, so dashing out for a new keyboard wasn’t the best possibility. Taking the time to dismantle the dang thing and rake out the mattress of cat hair was likely the best bet for rejuvenation. It turned out that if I put a pen nozzle into the spongey part under the space bar, after every word when I needed it, it would work. Needless to say, the morning’s assignment was rather tedious. I had to get another keyboard at lunch.

Surely, cat hair is the bane of my existence. Every cat owner knows that there’s no such thing as clean laundry. Fresh from the dryer, Miss Kitty wants it warm. We have to vacuum our underwear drawers, for crying out loud.

But whatever, that is just part and parcel of having these amazing living creatures among us. It’s still beyond me how each and every cat is such an unusual character. I wrote yesterday about Erte, the eccentric Russian designer. He once expressed that his heart yearned only for a cat, and was never without a small entourage of his beloved felines. I have such an assortment of tom-dandies here, it’s ridiculous. And the best part of my job is that two of the three just love flopping across the desk and spending the workday with me. And this is why so much cat hair sails into the keyboard!

Of course, I’m e-jogging to facebook quickly after darting out for the keyboard replacement. It goes without saying that I have to catch up- it’s been hours, and I feel out of touch. I also check out my old/new pal’s blog. And it’s nice to see my book on his blog today!

Facebook rules. It’s not the first time an old friend (or otherwise!) has come out of the woodwork, of course. But not every girl from grade three gym do you rush out to meet up with, and some you can’t, because they are in Ireland or Madagascar.

My friends asked about my pending reunion with this dear friend from high school. It had been sixteen or so years since I’d last seen Dave. During high school we got on famously, nattering endlessly about every conceivable analysis of every situation. It didn’t long after e-contact to notice some obvious synchronicities- we’re bloggers, we’re cheerful drama queens, we’ve been at the same places on Church Street at the same time all our lives and never ran into each other.

“I’ll have my cell if things go sour,” one of my queens offered. Well, this wasn’t a blind date, but still, there was no way to tell how things would turn out. I’d been pretty sure way back when that Dave was one of my favourite things in the world, but things go by, and people change, so there was no real guarantee. Still, I was guessing it would be an incredibly normal experience; that it would resonate oddly as if there had been no in-between years, even though I’m graying, have gained fifty pounds, and Dave had lost as much!

“This is how I think it’s gonna go,” I told them. “I think we won’t be able to stop talking.” Then I said something that really shocked them: “And if I recall correctly, this one may well outchatter me.”

Well, Dave and I were right at home among the rich and the tragic at Zipperz, warbling along with the actually astounding Kendall the One Man Band. And we talked, and we talked. I learned among other things, that my friend also has three cats- and three dogs! How cool is that?

The quirky bubble we inhabited for the evening was familiar and wonderful and I’m thankful for these bursts of joy in life where something goes really rather nice. This kind of laughter is the best medicine. It’s nice to recover some of your precious souls when fate allows.

It was also funny because I was hoping to avoid the topic of the last time we’d seen each other before losing the ropes. It was a slightly sour note for me and any feelings or politic I’d had were brief and petty. It was just by chance that this was the last note: it was not ‘a final straw’ on either side, to my understanding at least. Now, a decade and a half on, I could care less that a scene occurred at Dave’s party. Julie Ann and I had heard about the party and happened to be in St. Catharines, so we went. Julie Ann’s date also went, and he happened to be very tall and very hippie-like and talked in creepy under notes so that you had to strain to hear him. Well, he was a benign kind of guy, but the kids didn’t know that, and David asked us to hit the hippie trail. That was long before email, so phone numbers changed, addresses shifted, and hence, my last recollection of Dave was me blasting out of his driveway with two deadheads in the back seat of my dad’s Buick LeSabre.

Yep, embarrassing. So embarrassing that only two glasses of pink wine into the soiree, Dave says, “Hmm, I don’t really remember the exact last moment I laid eyes on you.”

What? “Was it in Toronto, or Niagara, do you know?” And that’s when it dawns on me that Dave had been plastered, as teenagers often are at parties, and didn’t even recall the weird encounter with Night of the Living Deadhead. He did not even recall meeting this brief amour of our mutual pal, Julie Ann.

And that, too, was a small gift. All these years I’d wondered why Dave’s last memory of me had to be this drama, however small. But it was forgettable drama, and he had, in fact, forgotten.

Now I am off to christen spring with a merry assortment of droll cats, including my favourite Crinkled Old Bat, Al, the hairdresser, and not one but two other meth widows. It’s good to have good peeps. It’s already been a great spring. Every little thing is magic. Sunny days ahead.

Visit writer Lorette C. Luzajic at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.
Buy her book, the one Dave raved about on his blog, above, or online through indigo or amazon.

He’s So Unusual: Donnarama’s World

It’s girls night in, complete with pedicures, wigs, hot chocolate, and dishing on celebrity scandals. It feels like those winter slumber parties when I was twelve. We’re doing makeovers and everything. Sound like fun? Oh, it gets better- because my BFF for the night only is Toronto’s most eligible bachelor. He’s a heartbreaker, all right- smoldering eyes, sexy tummy, five-o-clock shadow, and oh, yeah- a tickle trunk full of wigs and glitter. Vince Pincente always dreamed of being a star, just like millions of little boys. He had no idea it would actually happen. The catch? He’d be wearing a dress.

Meet Donnarama, a free-spirit who longed for the stage- or at least the camera- and hoped to be a famous horror movie actor when he grew up. Fate would have it that he’s a dead ringer for Barbra Streisand, instead, if he shaves and adds a little lipstick!

Happy for an audience by any means necessary, Pincente started showing up at amateur talent shows dressed as Barbra. One day, she found an old wedding dress at the Goodwill and envisioned Madonna, writhing away on stage in the gown. Donnarama was born: it was short for Madonnarama. The dress got recycled quickly from crooning Like a Virgin to rocking Courtney Love numbers. Donnarama thought the drag world was overloaded with Cher and Babs, and could use some old time rock’n’roll.

“Celebrity sure beats telemarketing and retail,” says Donnarama. “I woke up one day and found I was a cult on You Tube.”

Donnarama didn’t have to scrounge around at talent shows for long- youth, beauty and creativity were all on her side, and instead of getting lost in the catty, cut-throat, drug-saturated underculture of men who wear hose, Donnarama was determined to remain sweet-natured, fun, and funny.

Today, she is Toronto’s drag legend and she’s not even 30. She won already, and she’s going out again for Toronto’s prestigious Drag Idol award. But it’s not just a gay thing- the straight newspaper voted Donna Best Drag Star in Toronto. She’s won umpteen awards, trophies, badges, and whatnot, and there’s no doubt that the best is yet to come.

“Come on in, girl,” Donnarama calls from somewhere inside when I arrive. The halls are decked with garish amounts of Christmas décor. With glitter and candy canes and colourful balls everywhere the eye can see, the decor gives new meaning to the term ‘festive.’ I trip over some killer thigh-high boots and slip on some kind of lace.

“What do you think?” Donnarama appears in a tank shirt, arms rippling, track pants sliding slightly to reveal a yummy backside. Ah, well, paradise not for me. “Sorry, I’ve only got my face half-on, darling,” He bends down and picks up the slip. “With the boots? When it’s freezing outside, nothing else?” He steps back into a pile of crinoline to get a look in the mirror. “That would definitely be a taxi only night!”

It’s hard to imagine that this gorgeous guy is also Toronto’s most gorgeous girl. “I wanted to be a star,” he says. “I thought I’d be an actor or a rock star. I’m definitely not a girl, but I don’t mind playing one on TV!”

He beckons for me to come down the hall to his room. It’s very much a boy’s room. There are horror movie posters and plastic axes and whatnot everywhere, and dozens of old beat-up video boxes with titles that contain ‘return’ or ‘revenge.’ The bed is utilitarian, and guy-style, it looks like it hasn’t been made in months. The sheets aren’t pink or satiny, just grey. I poke around curiously in the bookshelf. There are some old John Saul thrillers and a stack of more literary ghost stories like Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery and some Poe.

Donnarama reaches for the stereo volume and suddenly strains of New Order’s Regret starts pumping loudly and the feeling is instantly nostalgic. A closet door swings open and her legendary tickle trunk is pulled from the closet floor.

“They say gay people are more outrageous but it’s not true, they’re a rather conservative lot,” she says, “overall.” A few extremely outrageous gowns surface, and she pulls them out of the trunk, one after another, like scarves or rabbits from a magician’s hat. “We’re far too pulled-together and clean-cut. Now Bjork, that’s a fashion icon I look up to. She’s the most fucked up human being who ever dressed and she lives in a fantasy world.”

I can’t believe my eyes when Donnarama pulls an ….egg purse? …from the trunk. “I made it myself, “ she says proudly, holding it against her. I’d already guessed that. Years of working at Value Village made her expert at spotting goodies- from Chanel castoffs to old Sears junk- wild patterns that she can tailor to a more contemporary fit. Donnarama makes everything herself. Once she sewed a bunch of cloth dolls she bought at the Goodwill, fused together into a ‘baby doll’ dress. She calls her ‘line’ Salvation Armani.

“An EGG PURSE!” she squeals. “You know, to go with Bjork’s swan dress.”

Donnarama is the kind of drag queen who makes a dress out of garbage bags, writes GARBAGE on it in big letters, and then performs as Shirley Manson. (And she interviewed his idol Shirley for Fab Magazine!) She’s just never what you expect. It MIGHT be Celine Dion, but then, it might be a tampon fight tonight, a re-enactment of that infamous scene from Carrie. One day it’s a pregnant Catholic schoolgirl. She’s a brilliant comedian, a true actress. I’d make her go out there as ‘Sandy Kaufmann’ but I doubt anyone would get it. Here’s a girl who works hard for the money, but refuses to get too serious. “In this business, you can’t get tripped up over a ripped nail or a wrinkle or a missed phone call. Cookies crumble, okay?”

She tosses a photo from a stack of clippings that are falling everywhere. I’m so amazed: it’s Donnarama, somehow transformed into Frida Kahlo. The thick, dark hair pinned back look like her own: a handy Mac pencil gave her the mannish brows Kahlo was famous for. “I try to go for uncharted territory,” she says. “And Frida spent her life in bed, sick. I wanted to let her out for a bit. Besides, I think that is the first time anyone went onstage intentionally with a unibrow.” We titter and giggle like children.

She ruffles through more news stories about her act and finds a photograph of her with a sweet bob, a red and black polka dotted dress, and mouse ears. Minnie Mouse, perfection. Another- skintight yellow suit, all curves-it’s Uma from Kill Bill. “There should be a little Priscilla and a lot of David Lynch.” I don’t know if she means Priscilla Presley or Priscilla Queen of the Desert, but I don’t bother asking because Donna’s chattering on freely about bringing joy to the world.

“It’s all a sense of fun, something less serious with room for everyone. I don’t have room for bullshit politics.” Donna’s drawing on those lips. She has a lot of Mac pencils in various colours and quickly sketches Donna’s features over Vince’s. She snaps on some false eyelashes. Rush Hour by Jane Wiedlin starts up, and she dons a pair of neon green striped tights, dancing madly. I’m in the middle of an ’80s Bananarama video or something.

“I gave drag up, you know.” I remember, because my arts collective had been begging her to do a routine for an art show we were throwing. It was ‘Re-introducing Donnarama, back by popular demand.” It was hard to get her to come back out of the closet. But she did.

“I gave it up because I was feeling unappreciated. I was a quitter. Things weren’t going my way. I was selfish, I was young.” She sighs. “I missed it so much. And I decided it couldn’t be about catty, competitive bullshit or you couldn’t survive. I brought my humour in. Humour opens doors. Joking around lets people know what I’m all about, to make you laugh. You can be a boy or a girl. Who cares? EVERYTHING is funny!” Donnarama picks up her guitar and starts belting out some Hole.

But it wasn’t all guns and roses for this one. She’s famously quiet about her private life, family and past. It’s wise in showbiz, but then it’s not exactly a secret that Donna’s mom looks just like Donatella Versace and her sister was cracked out. Along the way, Donnarama also lost a few friends to AIDS and drugs. “Like that’s anything new to any community, get real! Life is life. Sorrow is a given. I won’t complain about a bad childhood… it’s one that nearly everybody shares- I mean, get real, who grew up perfectly loved and pampered?”

“You want to know about my childhood? My mom was our best friend. We listened to Kiss together. I lived in my own little world. I hardly went to school. I did whatever I wanted. I loved most to make people laugh.”

Later, after the laughter and the tears, with fresh glittery talons in place and the Raggedy-Ann red lips (simply called, Mac Red), I gather up my notebooks and scarves and gloves. As I’m trading in some too-big patent silver pumps for my more wintry Uggs, I notice a giant poster of Barbra Streisand’s famous profile by the kitchen. “You really do look like her!” I say, kissing her goodbye on her big nose. I see a caption on the poster and look closer to read it. “Funny Girl,” it says.

visit the writer, Lorette C. Luzajic, at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.
take a chance on me! support small press literature and order my book, The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos, which Donnarama lists among her favourites! you can get it at my site, or online with indigo or amazon.

Calling all Angels: a Kindasorta Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, exactly half my life ago, Daniel and I went out on impulse and got matching tattoos, an unassuming rose, on our chests. Last night we were chilling at his pad for a quiet night of wholesome American Idol fun. Still festive after all these years, we enjoyed the company of gin in outrageous and perhaps a little outdated martini glasses, and more than a few Madonna numbers, as usual.

A day like this is no small treasure: what a gift is friendship.

Later, after we took in a half hour each of Seinfeld and Will and Grace, I headed home, and gave another good friend of mine a dingle. I’m happily the third wheel on the John and Gonzalo wagon. We love a good dinner party, some music, some seriously intense conversation and a good chardonnay. We love to laugh. I was the Best Girl at their wedding, pretty in pink as I stood with my friends as they wed. I was so damn proud to live in Canada, where my friends were newly able to celebrate their love just like everybody else. Today, we simply make plans for some Sunday night gourmet.

Yep, just another day in paradise. Free to be you and me. I love Canada for being a place where I am free to enjoy my friends and family of all stripes. But it wasn’t that long ago that I had no idea where so much of my freedom comes from. Because of a tireless hero named the Rev. Dr. Brent Hawkes, senior pastor at the Metropolitan Community Church of Toronto, my beloved J and G could stand at the altar. Because Brent Hawkes is brave and fearless, Canada is leading the world in many human rights affairs. I’m more guilty than anyone else on Church Street in complaining about just about everything, but Brent’s work puts things into perspective pretty quickly: gays in other parts of the world are regularly jailed, tortured, or killed. A lot of Church Street won’t set foot in church, and though you are invited, friends, you don’t have to feel the spirit to be a part of Brent’s fuzzy glow. We are free to a large extent because of his work.

I’m ashamed that I was only peripherally aware of Dr. Hawkes for so long, and grateful that it has changed. Last summer, after a two-decade absence, I returned to church. There were a few reasons for that, but I wasn’t expecting to find something so genuine and smart. I was prepared to swallow more than a little b.s. just to spend a few hours during a desolate period, a long grief, with God.

The second I walked into the old building, an understanding of the word ‘sanctuary’ suddenly flooded through me. The program I was handed said Welcome Home. This is a progressive faith, a positive life force, and it’s done wonders to balance the negativity and sorrow that accompany much of life. What can I say? Church is fabulous.

But whether or not we are a part of Brent’s church, we are all a part of his legacy. He braved bullets for us. He gave us freedoms we are hardly aware we have. For decades, Brent has served the front lines of fighting for human rights for gays and for all. He has earned numerous awards for his participation in endless causes. Brent doesn’t just learn from history: he makes it. While some of his work has been through various committees and advisory boards, some has been rather unorthodox: the hunger strike, for example, showed us a man who was willing to starve for our rights and freedoms.

You don’t have to take my word for it, friends. Today was the investiture ceremony for Pastor Hawkes being named to the Order of Canada — the country’s highest civilian honour. I am fiercely proud to be a part of Brent’s church and invite you to come out and learn about some of the ways it is active in local and global communities.

All are welcome: and in case you were afraid to ask, not everyone is gay. It’s not really about that. It’s just a place where everyone strives to get along, to open the heart. People from every faith background mingle naturally with people from every cultural background, from every subculture, from every kind of human need and longing, people of every kind. Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight. It’s all rather astonishing and I encourage you to visit. It is one of the rare places in my life that I have found that ever-elusive joy, the peace that passeth understanding.

Congratulations on today’s honour, my dear Pastor Brent. I am proud to be a part of his flock, and I have much to learn from a man who risks everything to give rights and freedoms to us. It’s clear Brent learned straight from the source, and took it to heart when Jesus said, “A greater love has no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”

For more information on services, outreach, mission, etc:
www.mcctoronto.com

Visit the writer at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.